


The only thing to fear.

by withoutwords



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, But it's not what it seems, M/M, Please soldier through, Sacrifice, There is major character death, sex scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 17:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2700737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutwords/pseuds/withoutwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's whole family had died, once. Now it was his turn to die for his family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The only thing to fear.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a character death - and the emotional repercussions of the death which I completely understand may be triggering to some people - but it is not what it seems. Please don’t be put off by that warning – I know that I normally would!

Stiles’ hand stutters where it is clenched around the handle; the tip of the blade piercing the soft plane of Derek’s skin stretched across his rib cage. Maybe if Stiles concentrates he can feel the heartbeat there, slow like an engine starting up; slow like it’s forgotten how to work. (There was a time he may have joked that Derek didn’t have a heart at all).

“It’s okay,” Derek says, and he’s smiling, _the asshole_ , while Stiles’ red cheeks are painted with tears and he sniffs and chokes and tries not to close his eyes. He promised. “It’s okay, Stiles, just do it. You _have_ to. Then everything will be alright.”

“No,” Stiles says around a wet cough, trying not to listen to Lydia’s muffled sobs behind him, using the hand Scott has around his shoulder as his anchor. “It won’t be alright, you – we - ”

Derek brings his own hand up, damp, weak, and wraps it around Stiles’. “I want this, okay? I want this, please?”

Stiles wants to yell, _I don’t want this_. He wants to cut out his own heart and give it to Derek, strap him to the table and feed him his blood, his flesh, his bone. He wants to save him.

That just isn’t an option any more.

“Remember,” Derek says so softly Stiles is sure only he can hear it. “The other side of every fear is freedom.”

Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand, and they plunge the knife in to the hilt, together.

*

“That, yeah, _that_ , fuck,” Derek cursed to the ceiling, his back arched and Stiles’ mouth hot around his cock where he was kneeling on the floor. His blunt nails dug high in Derek’s thighs, near the flesh of his ass, holding on as if he was worried Derek would be going somewhere. “ _Stiles_.”

Stiles pulled off with a gasp, just long enough to say, “Derek, don’t,” so Derek didn’t, lifted his ass and pulsed into Stiles, watching Stiles’ cheeks hollow and his eyelashes brush against his cheekbones. Derek ran a thumb down the curve of his face, taking it all in, taking it in until it was too much and he had to close his eyes.

When he came Stiles latched even tighter, with his mouth and hands and body, taking Derek in too.

*

Scott doesn’t breach the doorway when he gets to Stiles’ room. He just digs his claws into the drywall and says, “How are you today?” the same way he has for weeks, the same way they all have. Stiles wants to tell them that he is fine, that he knows life will go on. He wants Derek’s death to be worth it.

“I just want to sleep,” Stiles says instead, which is the truth, he just hasn’t been sleeping at all. Just like the nogitsune, he’s haunted, but this time he has no-one to blame but himself.

“Deaton says there’s no sign of the - ” Scott seems to choke on the word, like he doesn’t want to give it a name, or weight. He doesn’t want to remember. “He says the threat’s gone. He’s sure.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want – can I get you something to eat?”

“No.”

They just look at each other across the room, Stiles' hands curling tighter around his pillow waiting for some kind of attack. Waiting for Scott to tell him, _look at yourself, Derek wouldn’t have wanted this, Derek wouldn’t_ …

Scott toes off his shoes, and crawls into bed with Stiles, says nothing while Stiles sheds whatever tears he has left.

* 

Derek wore a button up shirt and the cologne Kira had bought him last Christmas. His hand trembled at his side as they walked the few blocks to the restaurant; unsure whether he could reach out and take Stiles’. Unsure whether that was the sort of thing they were doing here.

“You look,” Stiles said, then cleared his throat, hands in his pockets and a sideward glance at Derek. “You look good.”

Derek had held back a laugh. If he looked good, Stiles was somewhere in the vicinity of phenomenal. His hair was soft, and the dusk light was gentle on his face and if he rolled his sleeves up any higher to show off the strength and veins in his forearms, Derek would have to cancel their reservations and just take Stiles back to his loft.

“Thanks. You too.”

Stiles ducked his head, rubbed at the hair at the nape of his neck. The same guy who Derek had pinned to the jeep the day before; the same guy who had his pants around his ankles and begged Derek for _anything, please_. _That_ guy was embarrassed by a compliment. “Where are we eating?”

“ _Bellaro’s_. I remember you said you hadn’t been, even though …”

“It was Mom’s favourite, yeah,” Stiles finished, and then just stopped, grabbing Derek’s fingers with his own. “Can you kiss me now so I don’t spend the whole night wondering when you will?”

Derek had pressed his mouth in as his answer, used his free hand to angle Stiles to him. They had kissed enough times he’d begun to lose count, but not like this, not soft and slow and sparking, not laced with something so warm. 

When they walked on to the restaurant, their fingers were still entwined.

*

When his mom died, Stiles’ dad took up drinking as a solid interest rather than a casual hobby. He missed a lot of work, stopped quizzing Stiles on his Math, and let the phone ring out because he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Stiles still remembers that sound, and the smell of his dad’s shirt when they clung to each other. He remembers that torture, and what it did to him, and doesn’t want to inflict it.

So Stiles gets out of bed, and functions, exists,

until Lydia says, “There’s still a chance he might-” and Stiles throws a plate against the wall, tries to reach for a bowl but Scott stops him.

“Don’t,”

“It’s been almost two months, Lydia,” Stiles yells, because if they won’t let him throw crockery he’ll throw his words instead. “It’s been two fucking months, so don’t stand there and tell me that I’m giving up, okay, don’t - ”

“I wasn’t – I didn’t mean - ”

“I see him in my sleep, he comes to me and he thanks me for killing him, for saving us, and what did he save? What are we without – what do I - ”

Stiles roars, wrenches out of Scott’s grip and heads for the door, letting it crash behind him. He roars and roars and maybe it’s on cue, the anger stage, because he’s done denying it, he doesn’t care what Lydia says.

Derek’s dead. He’s dead and he’s not coming back.

*

Derek liked to pool the bed sheet low on Stiles’ back, tease himself with the top of the swell of Stiles’ ass. He liked to play at the freckles while Stiles slept, count them until he hit a new number or until Stiles woke up, huffing and then scoffing. Derek wondered if he would ever believe he was beautiful.

“What’s the plan for today?” Stiles asked around a yawn, twisting to meet Derek’s gaze. Derek’s eyes always fell to the spread of Stiles belly, instead, the curve of his dick, just there, right there.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Derek wasn’t aware he was licking his lips until Stiles had taken them in his mouth, thighs hot pressed against Derek’s and pulling at Derek’s hair. His lips had barely left their kiss when he said,

“Pardon the pun but you’re such a fucking _animal_ , seriously,” and he laughed, laughed across Derek’s collarbone, around the tight hill of his nipple, laughed and laughed until he had almost run out of belly. “Didn’t you have your dick in me like, an hour ago?”

“F – Five,” Derek groaned, though he had been tempted to say fuck you, taking all his breath in when the tip of Stiles’ nose played at the underside of his erect dick. “Was five, but feels like more,”

“How romantic,” Stiles teased, and with the soft graze of Stiles’ teeth, and the flood in his ears, Derek’s claws ripped holes in the sheet as Scott yelled across the room,

“What the fuck?”

Stiles had fallen onto the floor and Derek had clung a pillow to himself and the three of them had stared at the ceiling and come to terms with what had just happened. Everything had shifted into new territory, and Derek realised he was okay with it. Let them know.

“Surprise,” Stiles had said.

*

Stiles defers from college and takes up a full time job at _Richie’s Books_. Derek loved the place, loved to hide in the corner with stupid novels like _War and Peace_ while Stiles’ threw pencils at him and mocked. Scott stays at the clinic, Lydia goes back to New York, and the rest of the pack is never far away, always desperate to keep tethered. To keep trying.

Mrs. McCall comes to their house once a week and cooks dinner, and Stiles watches Jeopardy with his dad, relearning his laughter. A regular customer tries to give her number to Stiles and he just says sorry, explains that he’s attached, and doesn’t feel sad because it’s true.

Malia says, “You look good,” and ruffles his hair, and Liam makes the peanut butter cookies that are his favourite, tries to fob it off as having baked too much. Kira throws her legs over his lap and reads to him from The BHH Bizarre because she works there now but she will still mock it every chance she gets.

When Cora e-mails to say, _anything?_

Stiles replies, _no_ , and decides not to ask how she’s doing.

He hates that question.

*

It had probably been one of the best night’s of Derek’s life. _The_ best, maybe, but all the good memories he holds of his family are embalmed in gold and perfection and he doesn’t want to forget them. Negate them.

They had driven across town for the Sheriff’s birthday; consumed their weight in steak and drank beer just to watch Stiles pout. They talked about Derek’s plans, about the money and what he should do with it, about Stiles and what he had planned to do there too.

The Sheriff looked at Derek with a sort of affection he’d almost forgotten, _fatherly_ , and it made Derek’s bones settle; like being the wolf, evolving.

“Thank you,” Derek had said to Stiles later, pressing the head of his cock into Stiles, slow, slow, torturous, Stiles’ heel digging into his ass and his breath so thick Derek could almost see it. “Thank you, thank you,” he had kept saying, gathering Stiles as close as he could and pumping into him, right inside, warm and enveloped and set alight. It had been so long since Derek had felt fire and wanted more, wanted to be taken by it.

“Did you thank me for sex?” Stiles had said later, his arm curled around Derek and his lips fluttering at Derek’s neck.

“No. I thanked you for letting me be yours.”

Derek could hear the up-tick in Stiles’ heart, could smell his surprise, smell something else. “Jesus, Derek,” he had said so quiet. “You are, you’re – I’m yours too. I love you.”

Derek had stilled for a while, wanted to think about what he was going to say, what Stiles’ deserved. Only he wasn’t convinced he had much of anything Stiles deserved. “It’s okay,” Stiles had said when the silence had stretched so thin he could see through it. “It’s okay, Derek, because you know what? The other side of every fear is freedom, and when you stop being afraid to love me, I’ll still be here, okay? I love you.”

Derek had wanted to say it, had wanted to say everything, but he just kissed Stiles and knew he understood.

*

Stiles sees him at the corner of Bell and Peterson, buying Fro-yo and talking to a little old lady [Derek hated Fro-yo]. Stiles sees him at the Sheriff’s station, ducked over a desk and scribbling on a note pad [Derek had been handcuffed to that desk, once, and Stiles had enjoyed teasing him about it later]. Stiles sees him at the park, and at the coffee house and at the hairdressers on Graham coming out of the door with a girl. He sees him on the fringes of the property, flashing in and out of the trees, and he closes his eyes and chants to himself, _Derek stop, please, you’re not real, stop_.

“Okay,” Stiles says when Scott comes by, Kira waiting in the car. They have a trunk full of boxes and orders to clear out the property of the deceased, _Mr. Derek S. Hale_.

“Is there anything you want us to - ”

“No,” Stiles says, because Derek was never big on having lots of things. “No – just. Keep what you want.”

Stiles has a photo in his drawer and the paper crane Derek folded with his menu at _Bellaro’s_.

He’s done.

*

Derek sat in his chair and watched Stiles pull the loft apart. There were books on the floor and broken glass, and the picture of them in the back of the Jeep when they’d all travelled east for Izaac’s birthday. Stiles had punched and kicked and yelled every terrible thing Derek had already thought for himself.

“You can’t do this, I won’t let them - ”

“It’s my choice, Stiles.”

“You choose death? You would rather die than - ”

“Than live without you?” Derek snapped, getting out of his chair and taking Stiles by the shoulders. He wanted to shake and shake until he saw it, until the impossible became life. “ _Yes_. Over and over and over again.”

“No – no you’re not a fucking martyr, Derek, you’re not a fucking – 

“It has to be me. You know it does. If I do this then the pack will be free.”

“No,” Stiles said, wrenching his hands so tight in Derek’s collar his knuckles turned white. “No, no, no,”

Derek wrapped his arms around him and pressed his face in Stiles’ hair. Tonight, they would be together one last time. Derek wouldn’t tell him about Deaton’s plan, about the very slim chance they had to meet again.

_Derek, there’s a legend, practically a myth,_

_What, like werewolves?_

_The myth suggests that if the person who pierces your heart is the same person you gave it to – there could be redemption. You could get it back._

“I love you, Stiles,” Derek had said.

*

The call comes on a Friday morning, around Stiles’ second cup of coffee and a glazed donut that he found on the backseat of his jeep. Scott says, “Stiles,” in a voice that almost shakes the phone from his hand, “you need to get here,” but Stiles is already pulling out of his driveway.

Derek died. Stiles cried over his body until someone pulled him away, they buried him at the preserve, and made a speech that Stiles can’t remember any more. Derek died, black goo and purple light and Stiles’ name on his lips. Deaton had to use a hand to close Derek’s eyes.

Now. Today,

Derek is standing on the doorstep to the clinic, wearing the dark jeans Stiles gave him and a button down shirt. He looks like he’s just come from a wedding – no, a funeral – like he’d been out-of-state for the last 32 weeks and 4 days and 12 hours and - 

“Are you Stiles?” he says, unsure, stepping a little closer as Stiles falls out of the jeep. Stiles wheezes thick and wet and his eyes sting and his hands ache like they know they should be touching, _why aren’t they touching_?

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“I think I have something for you,” Derek says, and the slow roll and flex of his fingers over his buttons is almost unfamiliar. He opens his shirt enough to pull the lapel to one side, a landslide of pink and gold and impossible scar tissue that looks nothing like a knife wound and nothing like Stiles has seen before. Derek asks, “Are you scared?” as if he’d just pulled a gun to Stiles’ head.

“No,” Stiles says in a breath, stepping forward to reach out and touch it gently. He can feel Derek’s heartbeat in his toes, it’s everywhere, _he’s alive_. “I’m not afraid of anything any more.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Ultimately we know deeply that the other side of every fear is freedom” – Marilyn Ferguson.
> 
> [](http://thefancyspin.tumblr.com>Tumblr</a>)


End file.
